


Entrelacé

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Dance, Ballet, Dancer Castiel, Dancer Dean, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Student Dean, Teacher Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 21:43:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3091439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is Dean's dream, and he just has to remember, as Castiel shouts at him, 'Again! Again!'; as rage boils in his veins; as his body breaks and blisters, that this man was once the best in the whole country— hell, the whole goddamn world."</p><p>***</p><p>Wherein Dean is a young ballet dancer with a thing for his instructor, the world-renowned Castiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Entrelacé

The recital is fast-approaching and Castiel is running Dean ragged in preparation.

Dean's the principal, of course, and he's thankful for it, god is he thankful for it, but at the expense of getting home at all hours of the morning, day in, day out, barely able to walk, he just hopes it's all worth it in the end.

This is his dream, and he just has to remember, as Castiel shouts at him, "Again! Again!"; as rage boils in his veins; as his body breaks and blisters, that this man was once the best in the whole country— hell, the whole goddamn world.

It's one in the morning and Dean still can't land his jeté entrelacé. By eleven he was still keeping count, but now it's in the hundreds, and he can't get the hang of it. It's a difficult move that Castiel choreographed just for him, just because he knew Dean could do it, but Dean is failing, and he's so frustrated that he's grinding his teeth and his body is so tensed that he's getting worse the more he practices instead of better.

Through the routine, barely even looking at him, Castiel yells, "Chest up!", "Deeper plié!", "Point your trail foot!" and Dean's personal favorite, "Your arms are flopping around like chicken wings!"

Finally, Castiel shouts, "Stop!" and shoves the off-button on the stereo with the bottom of his cane so hard that it almost falls off the table.

Dean stops, breathless; his t-shirt is drenched, he's wobbling on his feet, and he thinks if he falls to the ground he'd pass out instantly.

Castiel limps over to him, stares him dead in the eye, gets so close that Dean has to take a step back. He sneers, face inches away from Dean's. "I chose you for this. I built this for you. I did all of this… for _you_."

Dean can take criticism, but he can't take disappointment. Not like this. Not from Castiel Novak, who was once the greatest living dancer on the planet and is also the sole reason Dean could get into this racket at all. It's Castiel's scholarship money that put him here, Castiel's teachings that made him great.

And Dean keeps failing.

Dean doesn't answer. He can't answer. Those blue eyes are staring into his soul and Dean can't look away, can't move. A bead of sweat falls down the side of his face and he swallows audibly. His breath is shallow in his throat, and he’s torn between his fight or flight instincts, storming out of the studio and never coming back, or screaming at Castiel to back the fuck off, he’s not good enough, he should have chosen someone better, someone who would be able to do this, someone not him—

A crashing noise startles them out of their stare-down.

Dean looks to the source of the sound, catches a glimpse of the stereo falling off of the table, and instead of classical music, a waltz begins.

A bubble rises up his throat and Dean cracks a smile, lets out a small laugh that he covers with his hand after it escapes him.

Castiel turns back to him, slowly, eyes wide.

"Do you think this is a game?" he asks, voice so deep that it resonates in Dean’s chest, and it's the same voice that's in his thoughts when he falls asleep at night, but saying nicer things, speaking praise and love and adoration.

Dean purses his lips and shakes his head, looks away to keep from laughing again. "No, sir."

But Dean breaks again when the song skips and changes to the Spice Girls' "Wannabe." He laughs so hard that tears well up in his eyes and he has to turn away from Castiel completely.

To Dean's utter relief, he risks a glance at Castiel, whose stern expression has turned to one of reluctant amusement, face stilled but for the wrinkles he gets when his eyes are smiling and his lips are not.

And Dean notices them, because Dean notices Castiel, not just the magnificent dancer, but the man underneath it all, too.

The music switches to something else, something with a sultry beat, and a blush creeps up Dean's face, but he still can't stop smiling.

"C'mon, Cas," Dean says, shoving at Castiel's shoulder lightly. "Dance with me."

Castiel smiles at him, eyebrows raised. "Really? You want to dance with me?"

Dean takes Castiel's cane— Dean knows he doesn't actually need it, that it's mostly just for show, this odd talisman of respect—and leans it against a table, comes back and takes Cas's hand in his. "When was the last time you just danced?"

Cas huffs a laugh, in an instant turning from Castiel, overbearing Ballet Dancer of the Lord; to Cas, the guy who just likes to dance and is really fucking good at it, who limps and carries a cane for dramatic effect, who learned how to smile without smiling so no one would ever see the break in his badass exterior, who only eats like five foods, and yeah, one of them is pizza, and Dean is rather fond of the extra .05% body fat he's gained since his Don Quixote days. That was back when Dean was a teenager in the bad part of town, spinning around in the tiny bedroom he shared with his little brother, watching the man currently in front of him do the most difficult moves in the history of the art as though they were as simple as walking.

Dean loved Castiel before Castiel even knew he existed.

And it's still true, even after the yelling and the insults and the long, torturous nights.

Hell, he probably loves Castiel more for it.

But Cas is the one who owns his heart, the shy boy underneath it all who stutters and laughs nervously whenever Dean flirts with him.

Like right now.

Cas looks away and squeezes Dean’s hand, admits, “It’s been a while.”

Dean steps closer to him, puts Cas’s hands on his waist, shifts their hips so that they’re at least swaying to the beat. Cas picks up on Dean’s movements and follows him, still won’t meet his eyes as Dean takes a step forward and then a step back. He snakes his arms around Cas’s neck, lets their bodies move in time with one another and the music.

Cas’s eyes are closed as Dean leads him around the room, slow and gentle, grinding their bodies together from thigh to shoulder. It’s some kind of salsa-tango-jazz combination that probably looks awful but feels amazing, to shut their minds off and move the way they want to move.

The stereo shuts off at the end of the song and they slow to a stop. Cas’s eyes are still closed, head bowed, breathless and clutching at the back of Dean’s shirt. Dean can feel their hearts beating against their chests, both rapid, and he presses their foreheads together, lets their noses touch briefly before Dean leans his head down, just an inch, and brushes his lips against Cas’s, the barest tentative touch.

Dean expects Cas to pull away, to scoff at him and tell him Dean is his _student_ and that this is _wrong_ and ten more tries at the jeté entrelacé before he can go home.

Instead, Cas’s breath hitches, and when Dean pulls away, Cas follows, catches Dean’s lips in full with his own.

Dean’s heart wrenches in his chest and he can’t do this anymore, this constant wanting but not taking, watching but not touching. He opens his mouth and invites Cas’s tongue inside, carding his fingers through his daily, meticulous, perfectly stylized bedhead.

Cas kisses _back_ , hard, with fervor, hands trailing up the back of Dean’s t-shirt and pulling them even closer together.  

They inch their way toward the mirrored wall, and Cas crowds him, backs him against it, leaving his lips to mouth at his jaw and neck. Dean gasps and holds on for dear life because everything he’s ever wanted is happening right now and he doesn’t want to let any of it go.

But Cas lets out a small, pained noise, pulls away from Dean and grits his teeth, spins his back against the mirror and slides down the length of it until he’s sitting on the ground, clutching his leg, face contorted.

"Cas?" Dean asks, panicked, and squats down next to him, puts a hand on his shoulder, eyes flitting rapidly from Cas’s face to his leg and back again. Cas is shaking, pale, hiding his face from Dean and curled into himself.

Dean had thought Cas was fine, that the injury had healed, that it was all for show—

Cas throws Dean’s hand off his shoulder and looks away. “We can’t do this, Dean. I’m—“

“Your instructor, I know, Cas,” Dean replies, but it comes out wavering and unsure, hand poised above Cas’s shoulder, afraid to touch.

Cas shakes his head, buries it in his knees. His voice is muffled and quiet when he says, “I’m broken.”

“What?” Dean asks, because that reason isn’t even included on the lengthy list of why Cas would reject him. Topping it is the teacher-student relationship, the age difference, and the fact that the best dancer in the entire fucking world could never want a wannabe, hopeful pseudo-dancer like Dean who can’t land jeté entrelacé to save his life.

Dean slides into a sitting position next to Cas, turned toward him, wanting to take Cas into his arms more than anything else and soothe all of his hurt, but he doesn’t even understand it in order to begin.

Cas lifts his head from his knees, and his face is broken, jaw clenched and chin trembling, staving off tears from the pain or the frustration or both, Dean can’t tell.

“I’m broken, Dean. I’m a broken _thing_ that no one can fix. I have no function.”

“That’s…” Dean begins, but it’s so insane, so _wrong_ that he can’t even finish his thought.

Cas averts his gaze again and whispers, “I see the way you look at me, the way you’ve always looked at me, since the beginning. It’s the way everyone else does, at first, and then the wonder and the lust and the adoration waste away into resentment and loathing and anger.” He presses his head to his knees again and adds, “But you still look at me the same way you did on your first day here, the way you did when you received your scholarship, like every damn day is a miracle. It doesn’t matter how mean I am or what I put you through, you walk in this room every single morning like it’s your first, and you’re the only one…” He stops, swallows, and shakes his head. “You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted in return, and I just…”

Cas trails off, choked. “You deserve so much better than me, Dean. As a teacher, as a mentor, as a friend. You deserve someone whole.”

Words have never been Dean’s thing. His entire life, he has expressed himself with his body because that’s the only way he can ever get his point across, to _show_ not _tell_ , and he takes Cas’s chin in his hand, lifts it so that their eyes meet.

“You’re wrong,” he whispers, and leans in, presses their mouths together again. This time it’s slow and deep and Cas bunches his fist in Dean’s shirt and drags him in, moans in this broken way that Dean would never imagine the greatest dancer in the world could make.

He pulls Dean onto his lap until he’s straddling his hips, settled into the V of Cas’s body. Cas kisses him like he needs Dean’s lips to breathe, and between kisses, Dean mutters against his lips, “You’re not broken,” over and over again, trailing kisses down Cas’s neck and whispering,  “I want you, just you. I’ve always wanted you.”

Cas’s breathing is ragged, and he thrusts his hips up into Dean’s, cocks straining in their tights, and Dean reaches in, gently strokes the length of Cas’s dick.

Cas gasps, arches his back against the mirror, and holds onto Dean, fingers leaving bruises on Dean’s hips underneath his shirt.

Dean presses his own waistband down and takes them both in hand, strokes them in a steady rhythm while murmuring praises, almost prayers, of, “You’re mine, I’ve got you,” and, “God, Cas, I’ve wanted this so long. I’ve wanted you so long.”

Cas makes heady, broken noises, head pressed against the glass, hips meeting Dean’s strokes until they reach the edge at the same time, stuttering hips into Dean’s loose grip, bodies taut and tensed.

Dean looks at Cas then, and it’s the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen. This man who was once the documented greatest at an art, who spends his entire life carefully sculpting his image to be art itself, keening, back arched, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open, quick shallow breaths escaping his throat with the barest of moans at the end of each one.

Panting and barely holding on, Dean brushes the shell of Cas’s ear with his lips and whispers, “You are not broken.”

Cas comes with a cry, grinding their hips together until Dean follows behind with his own strangled groan, fucking into his fist with his other hand pressed against the mirror.

They chase their orgasms down and Cas sits up to kiss Dean again, desperate and slow, bodies clinging to one another.

Dean pulls away, rests their foreheads together as they catch their breath.

“So,” Cas begins, the corners of his eyes crinkling so much that his lips twitch upward into a small smile. “Can we try the jeté entrelacé one more time?”


End file.
